


Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor

by LostWithoutMyBlogger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWithoutMyBlogger/pseuds/LostWithoutMyBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaned in closer to the table and glanced around the restaurant to ensure that none of the other patrons were close enough to hear what he had to say.  His voice took on that same low, conspiratorial tone that it had had when they were standing together outside the Roland-Kerr Further Education College.  “You did, after all, kill a man tonight to save my life.  I’d say that trust definitely factors into your role as my companion, colleague, associate, partner, or whatever it is you’d like to term yourself.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A series of missing scenes that detail the evolution of John and Sherlock's relationship from strangers to flatmates to friends to ... whatever else may come. Rating may change to "mature" M as things progress. Eventual JohnLock and all that it entails.  This story also appears on fanfiction.net under my author name "AStudyinSherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bottom Third of the Door Handle

**Author's Note:**

> The more I watch Sherlock, the more entranced I am by it. Such amazing acting and writing. How do they manage to do it all in only three episodes a series? That being said, I have decided to work on a selection of writings that focuses on “what happens in between or at the end of” the scenes and episodes. This is what I would like to think was left on the cutting room floor. Given the fact that I am a JohnLock shipper, these “missing scenes” will focus on the development of their relationship, first as friends and then as … well, the possibilities are endless, I suppose.
> 
> Please let me know what you think about this first installment. It is set immediately after the events of “A Study in Pink.”

 

  **Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor**  


 

**Chapter One:  Bottom Third of the Door Handle**

 

 

“So, is this what all your cases are like?” John asked, popping a piece of _shumai_ into his mouth before reaching for the small plate of spare ribs.  It was late, and though the place was open until two a.m., there were only a handful of other patrons scattered thinly through the Chinese restaurant.

 “With my deductions leading to the apprehension of the criminal?”  The question in Sherlock’s tone wasn’t so much a query as it was a wearied statement of what he considered to be an obvious conclusion.  “To date, yes.”  He poured hot tea into the small china cup that sat next to his plate and took a sip.

 “No,” said John around a mouthful of spare rib – his Gran would be horrified by his lack of table manners, but it had taken Watson all of three conversations with the consulting detective to figure out that if he _ever_ wanted to get a word in edgewise with Sherlock, he would have to take the opportunities when they were presented to him. He pointed his chopsticks accusingly at the man across the table from him, but there was no real malice in his gesture.  “With _you_ riding off with the suspect and nearly getting yourself killed.”

 “I was never in any real danger, John,” Sherlock said.  He turned his attention to the small plates of dim sum scattered between them.  Egg roll or _guotie_?

 “From the cabbie or from yourself?”  Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s.  The army doctor set his chopsticks on the edge of his plate and leaned back in his chair and stared – unflinchingly – back at the gray eyes that assessed him.  “Potential flatmates should know the _worst_ about each other, after all.”

From the set of his lips and the way in which he crossed his arms, John Watson did not fully believe Sherlock’s earlier assertion that he had no intention of taking the cabbie’s poison pill.  Truthfully, Sherlock wasn’t so certain himself.

 “If we’re going to do this –“ John gestured at the two of them, and it was clear that he wasn’t just talking about being flatmates, “I need to understand my role.  I need to know what ‘colleague’ means to you.”

Tapping out the fingerings for Paganini’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in D on the tabletop, Sherlock thought about this for a moment.  He’d never openly admit it, but Sergeant Donovan had been correct.  He didn’t _have_ colleagues.  If fact, John Watson was the first person to whom he had ever applied that label.  This simple army doctor.  No.  Not simple.  Simple suggested commonplace, and Sherlock had known from the moment he had walked into the lab at St. Bart’s that John Watson was anything but commonplace.  The question was why?  The doctor’s intellect was above that of Lestrade’s minions, but certainly nothing to equal his own.  What was it about this man that left Sherlock wanting to learn more?  Hear more?

 He would not share these thoughts with the man himself, of course, so, “Your medical expertise would be valuable since none of Lestrade’s people will work with me.  Anderson’s inept as you’ve no doubt noticed, and the rest of the medical examiners are even worse, whereas you at least show the _potential_ of being competent,” is what Sherlock said aloud.

 Though far from a rousing commendation, given what John had already witnessed regarding Sherlock’s questionable interpersonal skills, this was tantamount to high praise.  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” John said with a wry grin.  He reached for a sweet bean paste bun, bit into it, and washed it down with tea.  “Anything else?”

“Well, as I said earlier, I think better when I talk aloud, and as much as I love my skull, it’s only capable of so much insight, and the thought of continuing to try to explain my deductions to anyone at The Yard is extremely distasteful.  You, however, ask reasonable, if not always observant, questions.  Though I’m hopeful that will improve with time. ”

“Right.  So … itinerant medical examiner and sounding board.”  John scratched his temple and pursed his lips.  Sherlock continued to avoid what, to John, was the most serious issue.  “Umm … do you intend to always scuttle off alone after the murderer like you did this evening?  Because I don’t fancy the idea of running all over London trying to save your bloody arse when I have no idea where it is you’ve actually _gone_.”

“I never scuttle!”  The detective sounded offended, but shrugged his shoulders dismissively and turned his attention back to the food.  “The GPS on Jennifer Wilson’s phone guided you to me readily enough.” He decided on an egg roll.

“You really have _no_ sense of self-preservation, do you?” John pushed his plate to the side and leaned his forearms on the table.  His voice was low.  His incredulity clear.

“Quite the contrary, John, but ‘The Work’ is everything, and if pursuing the answers means that I have to occasionally put myself at risk – ”

“So, bodyguard then,” John interrupted.  “Clearly someone’s got to watch out for you.” 

 He wasn’t quite sure why he felt the compulsion to protect this man he barely knew, but the pull on his conscience was undeniable.  _You’ve always known how to do the right thing, Johnny-boy_ , his Gran used to tell him.  _Even when it doesn’t always make sense, your heart shows you the path to take._ “I’d imagine that most criminals don’t take kindly to getting caught; especially not the way that _you_ do it.”

 Sherlock considered the observation.  The truth was that more and more often Sherlock found himself in potentially perilous situations where an extra set of eyes would have been beneficial – the tender line of flesh that was healing along his ribcage from last week’s knife graze was testament to that.

“I am quite skilled at hand-to-hand combat, John, but it is likely that sooner or later I will run into an altercation that I will be unable to fully control myself.  A trusted companion with military experience who knows his way around close combat situations could prove essential to my survival and that of my work,” he acknowledged before he took another sip of his tea. 

John rolled his eyes at the unbelievable situation he found himself in.  “I’ve gone from stranger to flatmate to colleague to trusted companion in the span of 36 hours?  You do know how to move quickly, Sherlock, I’ll give you that.”  The problem was, John rather thought he liked it.

Sherlock leaned in closer to the table and glanced around the restaurant to ensure that none of the other patrons were close enough to hear what he had to say.  His voice took on that same low, conspiratorial tone that it had had when they were standing together outside the Roland-Kerr Further Education College.  “You did, after all, kill a man tonight to save my life.  I’d say that _trust_ definitely factors into your role as my companion, colleague, associate, partner, or whatever it is you’d like to term yourself.”

John didn’t fail to pick up on the fact that Sherlock hadn’t included “friend” into his laundry list of labels.

  _You’ve met Sherlock.  How many friends do you suppose he has?_ Mycroft had said to John during their cloak and dagger session in the warehouse yesterday. 

 Clearly not enough.

“I’ll let you know when I decide,” John said.

 Sherlock nodded absently at the comment; his brain already moving onto another line of deductions about the man who sat across from him.  “Quite the shot you made earlier.  Given that the Geneva Conventions permit medical personnel in combat situations to use their weapons only in situations of self-defense, it is unlikely that the RAMC puts a great deal of resources into training their doctors to become crack shots, yet, as evidenced tonight, you most certainly are.  Which means that you had experience with shooting a gun before you entered military service.  Father would be the most obvious teacher –“

“Stop it, Sherlock!”  The detective paused at the annoyance in the doctor’s voice.  “I can’t work with you let alone be your flatmate if you’re always trying to analyze everything about me.  If there’s something you want to know, just _ask_.  Don’t deduce!  Or if you have to, keep it to yourself.  Otherwise ‘amazing’ and ‘extraordinary’ will become ‘piss off’ faster than you can loop that bloody scarf around your neck.”

John took Sherlock’s silence as acquiescence and his raised eyebrow as the unspoken request.  “It was my grandmother, actually.  She raised us after our mother died.”  The eyebrow crept higher.  “Da had run off a few years prior,” John explained, his tone indicating that Sherlock would get no further information on _that_ issue tonight.  “She loved shooting.  Learned it from _her_ Da.  He competed in the 1896 Olympic Games in Greece.  Probably would have qualified herself if they’d permitted women to do so in her day.”

 “So she shared her love of the sport with you.” 

The doctor nodded.  “Harry had no interest, so it became something that Gran and I shared together.” Sherlock watched as John’s blue eyes momentarily grew distant with memories.   “It’s come in handy … once or twice.”

“That it has.”  Sherlock’s meaning lay heavy between them.

 Sherlock Holmes was unpredictable and erratic, brilliant and maddening, odd and, quite simply, a major pain in the arse.  John had no idea why he had decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people, but one look into those steady eyes told him that he could trust the man – with his very life if need be.

 “Listen, Sherlock … in the interest of ‘full disclosure’ between flatmates, you should know that I have … well, I have a hard time sleeping at night.”

“Nightmares,” Sherlock stated.  John’s brow wrinkled with irritation and Sherlock raised his hands in defense of his tacit promise, such as it was.  “No.  It wasn’t a deduction – well at least not a new one – but we’ve already established that you suffer from – “

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Right,” John sighed and took a sip of lukewarm tea and suddenly became fascinated with the tea stain on the corner of the paper placemat.  With his finger, he traced the damp circle that the bottom of the cup had left behind.  “I think I’d prefer if it were just nightmares, actually.”

“Night terrors, then,” Sherlock amended.  “Though somewhat common in children, a rather atypical form of parasomnia in adults consisting of episodes of intense fear symptomized by screaming, thrashing, inability to waken easily, sleepwalking, and potentially violent behavior.”  Though the words were clinical, Sherlock’s tone was not.  He had suffered from sleep terrors as a child, and though he had outgrown them by the time he turned 12, Sherlock had hazy memories of the fear – not the dreams themselves – but the abject horror that had flooded his mind when he at last came to himself again.   He could only imagine what John suffered both in the dreams and in the events that now caused his dreams.

 John stopped his circumnavigation of the tea stain and looked up when he heard change in Sherlock’s voice.  It was damn near empathetic.  Blue eyes held gray for a long moment and saw the silent sympathy of personal experience that lay there.  It won’t be a problem, the eyes said. 

“Not good when rooming in a bedsit.”  Sherlock took a quick sip of tea to clear his throat, and signaled for the check.  The moment of understanding had passed.

“A bit not good, yeah,” confirmed John.  It was why he had been so desperate to find new accommodations.   The managers of the bedsit had given him three days to vacate his room because of the nightly ‘disturbances.’

Sherlock glanced quickly at the check that was delivered to their table, pulled 30 quid from his wallet and handed it with a polite smile to Mrs. Tang before John could protest.

 John and Sherlock each bundled up as best they could in their coats to begin the long, cold walk back to their Baker Street flat.  Even with the lateness of the hour and the distance left to travel, neither man had any desire whatsoever to take a taxi home that night. They talked little, but the silences were companionable rather than awkward as though their relationship could be counted in decades instead of only hours.  As they walked, John felt the adrenaline rush caused by the evening’s events drain from his body, leaving him exhausted.  Whereas Sherlock bounded up the stairs with seemingly endless energy, John was barely able to drag his arse up the 17 steps to 221B.

John bid goodnight to Sherlock at the entrance to their living room.  “I doubt I’d even hear a herd of elephants stampeding down Baker Street,” he chuckled when Sherlock asked if his playing the violin would disturb John’s sleeping. 

“It helps me think,” the detective said by way of explanation.

“Night then, Sherlock,” John said with a weary smile and began to head up to his room.  

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was so quiet that John nearly missed it.  The doctor turned on the tread.  He was now eye to eye with the much taller man.  Sherlock rested his hand on top of the post, clenching the decorative knob with his fingers as he looked at the other man.  There was much he wanted to say, but the words were more cumbersome than fluid for once.  Simpler was better, he decided.  “Thank you, John.  Thank you for saving my life tonight.”

John smiled.  “That’s what friends do,” he said, the label was decided.

Sherlock watched John climb the stairs to his room, tossed his coat and scarf over the arm of the couch, and picked up his violin.  It was but the work of a few moments for Sherlock to ensure that the strings were appropriately tightened and the bow adequately rosined.  He tucked the violin beneath his chin, and pausing for a moment to select his piece – a modern solo designed to relax the mind and the body and hopefully keep the terrors away – he drew the bow across the strings.

Above stairs, John had just enough energy to drop his coat to the floor, toe off his shoes, and shrug out of his jumper before collapsing on top of the green-striped duvet that Mrs. Hudson had provided as part of his rent. 

Though he pulled the edge of the coverlet over his body to keep himself warm throughout the cold night, it was the strains of Sherlock’s violin that settled over his mind, urging John to sleep.  As he drifted, John remembered something that a girlfriend from his Uni days had said to him as he walked her back home after a classical music performance she had talked him into attending.  She was a cellist, a damn adorable one at that, and John had been young enough to follow wherever she asked him to go.

_“The instrument’s not merely an extension of the musician’s body, Johnny,” Ana had said.  “It’s our soul personified.  Every note that is played is the emotion of that person shared with the universe, and each time we play, our hearts soar with a sense of contentment and fulfillment for which there is no earthly comparison.”_

 John’s last conscious thought was that if Sherlock could coax something so achingly beautiful from what was – at its most basic components - a collection of wood, intestine, and horse hair, then the universe should count itself damn lucky that _such_ a soul chose to share its emotions with it.

 

 

 

 


	2. It’s Where Two People Who Like Each Other Go Out and Have Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brain, his “massive intellect,” had failed him in that moment and his emotions took control. John was gone. John was in danger. Not the girl. Not at first. Only John. Why? Finally, the adrenaline of panic that rushed through his body – a biochemical, “Move your bloody arse!” as it were – kick-started his mind and snapped him back to action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set immediately after the events in the tramway tunnel in "The Blind Banker."
> 
> Disclaimers: I don't own Sherlock, but I sure wish that I did.
> 
> This story has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own, and I apologize for them. 
> 
>  
> 
> Research and Plot:  
> My research on concussions indicates that the full effects of this form of traumatic brain injury can evolve over the course of hours -- or even days -- so while John seems relatively uninjured as he's walking with Sarah while Sherlock stops to speak with Dimmock, the full effects of getting pistol whipped and knocked unconscious are still developing.

**Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor**

 

**Chapter Two:  It’s Where Two People Who Like Each Other Go Out and Have Fun**

“I am _not_ an idiot!” John complained as he stumbled out of the cab behind Sherlock.  He rummaged around in his pockets for the keys to their flat, but Sherlock was already unlocking the door and crossing the threshold before John even remembered that when last he left the flat, he hadn’t been afforded the chance to grab his keys.

“Says the doctor with a concussion who refused medical treatment at a crime scene despite the fact that he was knocked unconscious for 30 minutes,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  He reached out one long arm to grab John by the collar of his jacket as the doctor’s balance gave out, yet again, and hauled him carefully yet none too gracefully down the hall and up the 17 steps to their flat. 

“You refuse treatment all the time,” John pointed out, clawing at the bannister for balance as they made the turn onto the second flight.  So as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had forgone the light in the foyer, and with flat above dark as well, the staircase was much blacker than usual.  To top if off, John’s vision was starting to blur a bit, and even with Sherlock’s help, he feared taking a tumble. 

Sherlock’s head spun to face the man he was practically carrying up the stairs now.  “ _I_ have a doctor at home.  _You_ do not.” His voice was a dark as the stairs.  The detective was clearly annoyed about something.

 “I _am_ your doctor at home.”

 “And as such you cannot treat yourself for a concussion and a bleeding head injury which is why you _should_ have accepted treatment at the scene.  ‘A physician who treats himself has a …”

 “’Fool for a patient’,” they said at the same time.

 “I am not a fool,” John insisted.

 “No, you’re an _idiot._ Are you not paying attention, or should I count this as another symptom of the concussion?” Sherlock demanded as they reached the landing in front of their door.  “You know you can’t tend to your own wounds, so that means _I_ have to do it.”  Sherlock propped John up against the open door to their flat with one hand as he searched for the light switch within.

 “I’ll be fine.  I’ll take care of it myself.  Just drop me in my chair, and I’ll – ” John’s voice trailed off as Sherlock’s searching fingers found the switch and the room was bathed in light.  “Oh, my God …”

 “Seating seems to be at a bit of a premium right now,” Sherlock said dryly.  He pulled the two strips of blue and white tape from the doorway and tossed them to the floor.  Dimmock’s people had been at 221B while Sarah, John, and Sherlock were giving their reports and filling out paperwork at the tramway tunnel, but the police only processed crime scenes; they didn’t actually clean them up.

 The room was in complete disarray.  The crates of books had been up-ended; the contents of John’s desk – including his laptop – had been knocked to the floor, cushions ripped up from the chairs and the sofa. 

 While the untrained eye would only notice that the room had been tossed, due to his months as Sherlock’s colleague, John’s eye was no longer _completely_ untrained.  Yes, the Black Lotus had clearly searched the room for the Empress pin, but it had been a cursory search at best.  There were darker, subtler signs that something far more troubling had taken place here.  The crooked pictures on the wall to his right, the overturned desk chair, the scuff marks on the corner of the coffee table in front of the sofa, three fresh gouges – from fingernails? – scraped through the old paint of the door casing.  All signs of a struggle.

 Sarah.

 “Sarah’s fine, John,” Sherlock said.  “You examined her yourself when the medics were done, and Dimmock’s people have taken her home.”  He shrugged out of his coat and scarf and tossed them on the sofa, all the while keeping one hand firmly planted on John’s left shoulder to keep him upright.  “Feisty one, your date.  Wouldn’t go quietly even when they threatened her with a gun.  That’s why they couldn’t search but this room and the kitchen.  Made too much noise.”

 The doctor barely noticed when Sherlock tucked his shoulder under John’s left arm and all but carried him through the kitchen and down the short hall to his bedroom where he sat John down gently on the bed.  “Stay right there,” Sherlock said and then left the room.

 John’s mind whirled with the memories of the night: waking up in the tramway tunnel, confused and disoriented; the damp, musty smell of disuse; the heat of the fires burning in the dustbins; General Shen’s threats; the horrifying yet empty click of her handgun when she pulled the trigger; Sarah struggling at her bonds beside him; the bolt of the crossbow aimed at her heart.  Things could have gone so wrong if Sherlock hadn’t shown up when he did …

 Sherlock passed his hand through the stream of water that flowed from the tap in the bathroom.  Still too cold.  Typical.  The pipes in the building were old and the boiler in the cellar older still.  Waiting for the conduits to fulfill his demand, Sherlock pulled several clean towels from the linen cupboard and set them under John’s medical bag where he had set it on top of the closed seat of the loo.   His fingers lingered on the well-worn leather of the kit and a slight shudder ran through him when he considered how close …

 Sherlock had been euphoric over the fact that he had decoded the cipher.  So much so that he failed to notice the blood on the front stoop, the abandoned place settings on the kitchen table, the –

 For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes had understood the cliché, but the truth of the matter was “heart dropping to the pit of his stomach” didn’t even begin to cover the sensation.  Not. One. Bit. 

 Sherlock gripped the edge of the washbasin.  How many precious seconds had he wasted staring in shock at the ominous cipher scrawled across the windows?

 Dead man.

 John!

 His brain, his “massive intellect,” had failed him in that moment and his emotions took control. John was gone.  John was in danger.  Not the girl.  Not at first.  Only John.  Why?  Finally, the adrenaline of panic that rushed through his body – a biochemical, “Move your bloody arse!” as it were – kick-started his mind and snapped him back to action.

 The ride from the flat to the tramway tunnel had been interminable.  Rarely had Sherlock ever taken note of traffic lights and roundabouts; all they had ever been were a sort of  “visual white noise” to the symphony of his thoughts, but their dull humming had turned to an antagonistic roar of laughter as heavier than usual traffic kept the cab from quickly traversing the few miles between.   How they mocked him and his desperation to reach his friend.  He had arrived in time, though ultimately, it was John himself who had prevented Sarah from being skewered by a crossbow bolt and, consequently, kept Sherlock from being strangled to death by an over-zealous acrobat with a silk fetish. 

 Even the bravado of his taunts at General Shan had been just that, boldness and bluster, neither of which he had actually felt.  His only concern had been to get John – and, yes of course, Sarah – out of there, and in his haste to free the woman from her bonds, Sherlock had failed to take note of the assassin in the shadows.

 During the relative silence of the cab ride home – punctuated occasionally by John’s grunts of pain as the full extent of his injuries began to manifest themselves– Sherlock attempted to deduce why he had reacted so viscerally to John’s abduction.

 He had long since concluded that John was an invaluable part of his life.  Over the last several months, John had more than proven his worth as the “trusted companion” Sherlock had described that night at the Chinese restaurant. 

 John was steadfast and loyal, had a stout heart and a kind soul, so the ferocity with which the good doctor – no in those situations, the good _soldier_ – protected Sherlock from danger had come as a bit of as surprise, yet it served to highlight the fact that John Watson was neither _just_ “doctor” nor _just_ “soldier.”  The two were as intertwined within his nature as were honeysuckle with hazel – neither part surviving without the other.

 Sherlock counted John as a friend, perhaps his only friend, but was such a response typical of friendship?  Sadly, the result of Sherlock’s analysis was unsettlingly inconclusive.  There just wasn’t enough comparative data.

 An ancient yet familiar rumbling from within the wall pulled Sherlock’s attention back to the present.  The boiler had decided to surrender its treasure.  Pushing thoughts of “what could have happened” to the back of his mind – utterly pointless they were, really – Sherlock took up the ceramic bowl he had brought in from the kitchen.  He had his blogger to patch up.

 Moments later, Sherlock’s brisk stride echoed in the hallway.  “Here.  Take off your shirt and press this to your shoulder,” Sherlock handed John one of the icepacks they kept in the fridge. 

 John woke from his reverie and looked up from the icepack in his hand to the room in which he sat.  His brow furrowed with confusion.  “Sherlock.  Why am I in your bed”

 Sherlock gave John a pointed stare before answering.  “Your _on_ my bed, not in it.  I wasn’t overly interested in tidying up the living room before setting you to rights, and I am definitely _not_ going to haul you up another two flights of stairs,” he muttered by way of explanation as he set down three towels and a bowl of water on the bedside table.  He then dropped John’s medical bag on the bed and began pulling out various items from its depths:  gauze dressings, surgical tape and cotton, scissors, a compression bandage, a few plasters, antibiotic ointment, latex gloves.  He took a small bottle of antiseptic solution and poured a measure of the liquid into the bowl of water.

 “Are you going to take off that shirt or not?” Sherlock demanded as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of John.

 “It’s a _head_ wound … “

 “ _And_ a strained right shoulder _and_ lacerations to both wrists.”  Sherlock huffed with frustration as he took the icepack from John’s still fingers and set it on the bed.  He leaned in and started to undo the buttons on John’s striped shirt.

 John jerked back at the unexpected contact.  “I can do it,” he protested.

 “The adrenaline rush should be nearly spent by now, and you had your arms tightly bound behind your back for over an hour.  Yes, please show me how well you can move them then, won’t you?” 

 John moved his shoulders slightly to prove Sherlock wrong and grunted in pain and irritation when all he did was manage to prove Sherlock right.  Damn but he wanted to rip that cocked eyebrow right off of Sherlock’s face sometimes, the bloody git.

 “John, you placed the responsibility of your care into my hands tonight,” Sherlock said softly, his eyes intent on the doctor’s.  “ _Please_ , let me do the job you charged me with.”

 John sighed but nodded his consent.

 Given the frustration Sherlock had exhibited since leaving the tramway tunnel, John was not prepared for the gentle manner in which he unbuttoned first the long row of buttons down the center of John’s chest and then the ones at the cuffs, carefully avoiding the abrasions that marred John’s wrists from the rough ropes that had been used to bind him. 

 Sherlock eased John’s arms out of the sleeves and tossed the hideous shirt to the floor – _we_ really _need to get you to my tailor, John_ , Sherlock thought – before turning his attention to the undershirt.  A few quick tugs released the white cotton from the waistband of John’s trousers, but he quickly realized that getting John’s arms out of this would be more problematic than it had been with the dress shirt. 

 Sherlock raised his eyebrow in silent query.

 “Just do it.  I’m not overly attached to it anyway,” John said.

 After a few quick cuts with the surgical scissors, Sherlock was able to pull the tatters of cotton away from John’s torso and was greeted with his first glimpse of the bullet wound that had ended John’s military career.  The site was indeed a mess.  A mass of pink scar tissue – some caused by the initial wound, some from the surgeries – wrapped its way across the top of John’s shoulder as well as under his arm, but it was the subtle depression below John’s left clavicle that caused Sherlock’s heart to lurch for the second time that night.  The doctor had once vaguely described his injury and indicated that he had contracted a staph infection that nearly claimed his life.  Clearly, medical treatment had included surgically removing a noticeable portion of the infected tissue.

 It took Sherlock only that moment between one heartbeat and another to gather his inferences, so John was thankfully none the wiser.  He wouldn’t appreciate the inspection.  Yet as Sherlock stood to assess his friend’s most recent injuries, he tried to push back the sensations that pulled at him when he considered the pain that John must have been in, that he might _still_ be in, for it has not yet been a year since he was wounded, treated, and discharged.  Sherlock was unsuccessful in doing so.

 He leaned over John’s body to inspect tonight’s damage to the right shoulder.  He palpated the tender skin, though _why_ he did, he didn’t know.  It just seemed the thing to do.

 “A few scrapes and the beginnings of some swelling.  The bruising has potential, though.”

 John’s responding grunt was a cross between a chuckle and a groan of pain as Sherlock pressed the icepack to his injured shoulder and began wrapping the compression bandage around John’s torso and under his arm to keep it in place.  John didn’t feel at all uncomfortable as Sherlock’s fingers brushed at his skin with each pass of the bandage.  In fact it was rather comforting given the stress of the harrowing evening.  

 Odd, that.   But perhaps not really all that odd.  He trusted Sherlock implicitly and knew that despite the man’s grumblings and protests to the contrary, he would give John the best care he was capable of providing. 

 Once the bandage was secure, Sherlock pressed his hand to the crook of John’s neck to indicate that task was complete, then shook out one of the towels and draped it over the small lamp on the table before switching it on.

 John smiled his thanks and was warmed that Sherlock had though to do so.  Though sufficient for Sherlock to examine his shoulder, the light from the hallway wasn’t enough for the detective to tend to the rest of John’s injuries.  Realizing that the concussion would likely make John sensitive to light, Sherlock had used the towel to shield it.  There was now enough light for Sherlock to work, but not so much as to cause John any undue pain.

 Sherlock slipped on the latex gloves and dipped a square of gauze dressing into the water.  The solution was warm against John’s skin as Sherlock carefully wiped away the blood from his temple.  He tossed the used square into the bin at his side and grabbed another, and then another repeating the process until the blood was entirely cleansed from John’s head, hair, ear, and cheek.  Sherlock’s ministrations were so gentle that John found his muscles relaxing for the first time since they’d taken on this bloody case.  He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting under the care of his friend.

 “Open your eyes, John,” Sherlock said, tugging on his chin.  “Not time to sleep yet.  Concussion, remember?”

 Yeah, right.  Concussion.  John opened his eyes and was met by Sherlock’s close, gray stare as he evaluated his condition. John’s breath caught in his chest at the unexpected nearness of the man.

 “You’re pupils seem to be appropriately reactive, but based on the way you’re blinking, I’d say you’re having a hard time focusing,” Sherlock offered.  He applied some antibiotic ointment to a cotton swab and then coated John’s laceration liberally with it.

 “A … a bit yeah,” John stammered, trying to recover his composure. He swayed a touch where he sat.  How much was from the concussion and how much was from – _Stop it, John!  Pull yourself together man!  This is your friend, your flatmate, your colleague, and you’re_ straight _, remember?!_ “Umm … how’d you get so good at this?”

 “I observe and apply,” Sherlock said patiently as he affixed two butterfly plasters to John’s cut and covered the lot with a gauze dressing he taped into place.  Though the answer was obvious, Sherlock was willing to cut John a little slack tonight for he certainly wasn’t himself.  “You’ve been patching me up with some regularity since you moved in.  It stood to reason that sooner or later I might have to do the same for you; I paid attention.  I’m just glad that stitches are not required.”

 “Why are you so annoyed with me?” He hadn’t meant to ask that, but it had been itching at him since Sherlock had turned taciturn in the cab coming home.  John was becoming inured to Sherlock’s silences – he had learned to interpret these moods from observing the man’s body language – but this one was strange. It just hadn’t felt like the others, yet by the time they pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B, Sherlock’s silence had been replaced with frustrated monologue tinged with hints of anger.

 Sherlock turned over John’s left hand and carefully unbuckled the band of his wristwatch, setting it at the base of the lamp.  “It’s not like I walked up to the Black Lotus and said, ‘Here I am!  Please pistol whip me into unconsciousness and kidnap me and my date.’”

 Sherlock didn’t answer him. Though the detective was still mostly a mystery – John _really_ hated the iceberg metaphor, but it was damned accurate in this case – he determined from the subtle expressions that flashed across Sherlock’s face in the half-light of the room that he wasn’t being ignored. No.  Sherlock was wrestling with something.  Something he wasn’t sure how to express, which meant it was probably emotional in nature.  Sherlock rarely had difficulty expressing anything else, after all. 

 So John would wait.  He watched silently as Sherlock focused his outward attention on washing the wounds on John’s wrists just as he had his temple: first the right and then the left.  Dip, wring, swab, dab, toss.  Dip, wring, swab, dab, toss.  He even went so far as to use his pocket magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers to ensure that no rope fibers remained that might generate infection.   The movements of Sherlock’s long fingers were surprisingly graceful for their inexperience at the task; John found the motions almost hypnotic, and when his left hand started its trembling again – as it always did when the stress of battle left him – Sherlock lightly gripped the back of John’s hand in the palm of his, stilling the tremors, and continued with his attentions.

 As Sherlock worked, the open collar of his silk shirt shifted and John noticed the dark bruises and swelling coming up around Sherlock’s neck where Soo Lin’s brother had nearly strangled him with the silk sash.  “You’ll want to put some ice those soon,” John said, indicating the welts.  “And take some paracetamol.”

 Sherlock’s quick nod was John’s assurance only that the other man had heard him, not that he would comply. 

 When he was done taping the gauze dressing around John’s more seriously injured left wrist, Sherlock quickly yet silently packed away the supplies, tied up the bag in the bin, and was about to take the basin to the bathroom when John boldly reached out to grab Sherlock’s arm before he could escape to the loo. 

 “You didn’t answer my question, Sherlock.”

 The detective clenched his hand into a fist where it hovered over the surface of the bloodied water.  Then he sighed and dropped his arm.  His fingers tangled briefly with John’s as the doctor’s hand slid off the silk sleeve and dropped along with Sherlock’s hand.

 Sherlock took one deep breath and then another, nervously tapping out a rhythm against the fine weave of his trouser leg as he sought for a response to a question he didn’t fully understand himself. 

 “Get some rest, John,” Sherlock said finally, looking over his shoulder at the man on his bed.  His voice was at once so quiet and so deep that John thought he felt the words rather than heard them.  “I’ll wake you in two hours.”

 And with that, Sherlock took up the basin and the medical bag and disappeared down the hall.

 John sat there for several minutes, debating whether he should follow Sherlock or Sherlock’s instructions.  The events of the evening had hit his friend in a way he was not expecting and Sherlock was having difficulty processing them.  That much was clear.  What was puzzling was _why_.  He and Sherlock had been in dangerous situations before, and always Sherlock had come out the other side of the adventure buzzing with energy.  While this case, and the way it was resolved, was definitely worthy of a multi-chapter post on the blog, they had been victorious.  It had been dicey, but they had come home safely as they always had done before.  What was different?

 John was about to rise from the bed when achingly melancholic strains reached his ears. Though Sherlock insisted that playing his violin allowed him to think more clearly, John was increasingly convinced that the sounds elicited from that instrument had nothing to do with what was inside the brilliant man’s head but was, instead, a reflection of what was trapped inside his heart.  Based on the soft, sorrowful melody drifting through the flat, any overture that John attempted to make would be met with silence.

 John sighed.  Toeing off his shoes, he lay down gingerly on the luxurious duvet beneath him. As he sank into the comfortable mattress, his worry about his friend dissipated under the weight of his exhaustion and his injuries.

 Each time John woke at Sherlock’s quiet urging, he noticed subtle differences in the room:  The knitted throw that covered him and kept him warm; the paracetamol pressed into his hand followed by cool, refreshing water; an extra pillow beneath his shoulders propping him up just a bit more comfortably. 

 The third time he followed his body’s command to sleep, John noticed Sherlock settle his long frame into the chair he had pushed back under the window.  A dark profile in an even darker room. 

 “Sherlock?” John mumbled, raising his head in query.

 “Get some rest, John,” Sherlock replied.  His baritone was no longer tense and brittle but deep and soothing. 

 Hopeful that perhaps Sherlock had come out the other side of this adventure after all, John slept.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, the kudos, and the bookmarks that the first chapter received. I truly appreciate the feedback. I'm one of those people who thrives on constructive criticism and happy readers, so please, please, please let me know what you think of this second installment.
> 
> Up Next: Missing scenes for "The Great Game." Though not for a few days, yet. :)


	3. I'll Burn the Heart Out of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I chose this, Sherlock. I don’t chase around half of London with you every bloody night just because I need a cheap flatshare, and it’s time you understood that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came together a little bit faster than I anticipated, so I hope you all think it's up to snuff.
> 
> Research and Plot:
> 
> I visited the John Watson tie-in blog sponsored by the BBC, and was surprised to find out that the events of "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" are only a few days apart, so I am going with that timeline. Additionally, I am using the contents of John's blog to explain how Moriarty abducts Watson in the first place.
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> 1\. Sherlock's not mine. Sad, but true.  
> 2\. This has not been betaed or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own. Hopefully, there aren't too many of them.
> 
> My thanks, again, to those of you who have left comments, kudos, bookmarks, and the like. Reviews are bliss. I'll admit to checking several times a day. A girl needs all the positive reinforcement she can get, after all.
> 
> This chapter takes place immediately after the events of "The Great Game" (or the first five minutes of "A Scandal in Belgravia"; however you choose to think of it). Enjoy!!

**Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor**

**Chapter Three:  I’ll Burn the Heart Out of You**

 

 

_This is a turn up, isn’t it?  Bet you never saw this coming._

 

                  Shock.  Bewilderment.  Hurt.  Dear God, Sherlock.  No.  I wouldn’t …

 

_I can stop John Watson, too … Stop his heart._

 

                  That voice.  Soft.  So soft … so terrible in his ear.

 

_That’s what people DO!_

 

_That’s what people DO!_

 

                                    DO!

 

_DO!_

 

**_DO!_ **

 

John Watson’s head snapped back as the sound of a passing lorry with bad breaks rattling down Baker Street pulled him back to reality.  For a moment he couldn’t figure out why he was huddled on the floor in front of the blazing fireplace wrapped in so many blankets that if he left them now he might sprout wings and flutter about the flat, but then he remembered.  

Cold.  So damn cold!

Though he now wore two jumpers, three pairs of socks, and a pair of flannels over his trousers, John was shivering.  How much was from the shock and how much from the currents of cold air that spilled through the gaping holes of the flat’s boarded up windows, he wasn’t sure.  The breeze he would deal with, the memories, however … 

He pressed the thumb and index finger to his eyes as if their pressure could forever banish the things he had seen and experienced that night, but it wasn’t to be. John could feel the panic attack starting to set in.  He hadn’t had one since before he moved into the flat with Sherlock, but he knew the signs. 

God, no.  Please!

His chest radiated pain like it was on fire, and what breath he drew came in gasps. His hands had gone numb.  He felt weak … trapped. 

Have to get out of here!

John struggled against the blankets that held him captive before the fire, but he couldn’t get free, nor could he escape the doom and the dread that descended upon him.

Moriarty murmured in his ear again.  So soft.  So cold.  So cruel.  The promises … the threats ...

A low moan of fear escaped his lips when a pair of strong arms locked around him from behind.  

 He fought them.

John!

_No.  No, he’s here.  Sherlock!  No.  You can’t have him.  I’ll not let you hurt him!_

I’m here, John.

_Sherlock!  Run!  Can’t let you … Where is it?!  Where’s my weapon?!_

_No_ , John.  John!

John tried to scramble across the floor, desperate to be free, but with each twist and lunge he made, the arms held him tighter, more securely, and would not let him go.

You’re safe, John.  We’re safe.  You’re home. 

At first John was insensible to the warm lips that pressed closely to his right ear, but eventually the deep, rich timbre that whispered to him supplanted that of the demon that echoed in his mind.  Slowly, _very_ slowly, with the soothing voice acting as his anchor, John pulled himself free of his panic. 

The first thing John noticed when he came back to himself was that the flames had diminished to glowing coals in the fireplace.  He still sat on the floor, but he was no longer alone.  Sherlock sat behind him; his long arms held John closely, and his even longer legs were wrapped along side of John’s, creating a cocoon of safety that had drawn John out of his horror.

“Not quite the run of the mill panic attack, I think.”

“H – how long?” John asked.  His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

“Twenty-seven minutes.”  Sherlock’s reply resonated through John’s chest. 

John sighed and dropped his chin to his chest.  “Bloody embarrassing,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you apologize?”

The doctor loosed the fingers of each hand from their death grip on Sherlock’s blue silk dressing gown.  The fabric was a mass of damp creases from his hold.  John rubbed at his eyes, and his shoulders dropped dejectedly at the moisture he found there.  “I … I should be able to h-handle this,” he said after a moment.

“That’s the soldier talking,” Sherlock admonished.  He relaxed his grip around John’s chest but did not let go of him altogether.  “What does the _doctor_ say?”

John stared at the dying embers of the fire and collected his thoughts; when he spoke again it was with the detached, clinical voice of a physician.  “That the mind reacts to psychological trauma in ways we don’t fully understand, and a panic attack is a perfectly normal reaction to the danger and stress I experienced tonight, especially considering my established history with PTSD.”

“Don’t apologize for that which is normal, John.  Not in here,” Sherlock gestured at the flat around them; John should feel safe in his home, “and _never_ with me.” 

Had John been more lucid or had more energy, he probably would have demanded to know what had happened to the man who had asserted that caring for the victims of Moriarty’s crimes would do nothing to save them.  Yet here John was, one of those victims, and he felt very well cared for.  Very well, indeed. 

John felt Sherlock’s fingers skim the top of his head down to the nape of his neck where the attending physician – there had been no escaping a trip to A&E this time – had stitched up the laceration left behind when Moriarty’s man pistol whipped him and shoved him in the back of a stolen cab not five minutes after John had left Baker Street to visit Sarah. 

“How’s the head?”

“Hurts.  Hard to think,” John admitted.   “The painkillers they gave me are wearing off.”

“Two concussions in less than a week would tend to make things a bit fuzzy, I’d imagine.”  The condescending tone that Sherlock usually took when discussing a person’s intelligence or ability to think objectively was blissfully absent.

John nodded, closed his eyes, and leaned back further against Sherlock’s chest.

“People may talk,” Sherlock warned, his voice tinged with amusement.

“People do little else,” John sighed, echoing Sherlock’s words from the pool.  “So let them.”

The panic attack had exhausted John’s body as well as his mind.  He doubted that even another bomb going off across the street would be enough for him to find the strength to move right now, to say nothing of the fact that for the first time since arriving home he didn’t feel like he was freezing to death. 

Three cheers for body heat!

Sherlock shifted slightly to prop his back against the seat of his chair but otherwise made no indication that he was uncomfortable with the current arrangement.  They were comrades in arms who had suffered together in battle and were now simply content to relax with each other in the knowledge that they had survived Moriarty’s insidious game.   Twenty minutes ticked by before John interrupted the silence 

“Either share it or stop thinking it, Sherlock,” John’s lazy voice was stronger that it had been before, but his body was still listless.  

“I thought you had fallen asleep.”

“Not when you’re thinking loudly enough to raise the dead.”

Sherlock tarried in thought a few moments more before saying, “I wasn’t angry with you.”

“What?” John’s eyes popped open at the statement, confused.  “When?  What are you talking about?”

“The other night after you were kidnapped by General Shan and her Black Lotus sycophants.  You asked why I was so annoyed and angry with you.  I wasn’t.”

John bit back a sigh.  Sherlock wasn’t one to revisit old issues unless they were germane to the present situation, but damned if that meant John always managed to follow his line of thinking.    He turned a bit in Sherlock’s arms to look back at his friend.  “Go on,” he prodded.

“I was angry with myself and frustrated with the situation that I led you into.  I allowed you to be hurt.  I … I wasn’t prepared for my reaction to your abduction.  It was primal, visceral, and very confusing.  My mind shut down, and I couldn’t think of anything except you, the threats to your life scrawled on the windows, whether or not I could reach you in time.”

“You were afraid for me,” John’s voice held not once trace of bewilderment or confusion, only acceptance.

Sherlock scrambled around to face John directly, and the doctor almost groaned aloud at the loss of the warm body against his back.  “John, your association with me has put you at risk.”

“Yes, it has,” John conceded as he pushed himself up off of the floor and into Sherlock’s over-sized chair.  Ahh, yes.  Cold leather.  Just bloody perfect.  He pulled the blankets – most of them of the orange shock variety – more closely around his shoulders and tucked his feet under his body. 

“Then we’re agreed!”  Sherlock jumped up from the floor, clapped his hands together, and began pacing about the room as he always did when formulating a plan inside his head.  “Good.  We’ll start packing things up tomorrow, then.  Rent is paid up through the middle of next month, so I’ll not need to worry about another flatmate until at least –“

“Just a sodding second, Sherlock!”  John demanded, sitting up straighter in the chair.  Once again, Sherlock had held the majority of the conversation inside his own head and had skipped sharing it with those who were coming late to the party.  “What are you blathering on about?  _What_ _new_ _flatmate_?!”

“Well, I’ll not be able to afford the rent on my own.  Granted, there’s no replacing you, but – “

“And just where will I be?”  John’s voice had taken on a decidedly withered tone.  He had a sinking feeling that he knew _exactly_ where this was going.

“Well, Harry’s to start, I should think,” he paused in his lap around the floor and sat down on the edge of the coffee table as he reconsidered.  “Though given that she’s started up again with the drink, maybe Lestrade will accommodate you until you can find something more permanent.  His wife’s gone off with that chemist from Suffolk again.  Then again, perhaps you should go out of the country altogether for a while.  I hear Costa Rica is quite lovely.”

“Sherlock.  I’m not moving out.”

“Of course you are, John,” Sherlock’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.  “I thought we were agreed.”

“I agreed to nothing of the sort.  I’m not going to run just because things have gotten more dangerous that we anticipated.”  John gestured toward his overstuffed chair, “Now sit down so we can – “

“John, I’m not willing to risk –“

“Sherlock, I’m only going to say this once.  Sit your bloody arse down in that chair _right_ now because if I have to get up out of this one to force you into it, I won’t be held responsible for any bones that might be broken in the process.”  John’s voice was quiet but carried with it an intensity that demanded attention.  He didn’t rant.  He didn’t rave. The threat was a promise, and his purpose was clear.  _Captain_ John Watson was speaking, and he would not be ignored.  “And put down that sodding violin.  You’re not going to pluck and sulk.  You’re going to listen to what I have to say, answer any questions I may have, and then we’re going to figure out where we’re going to go from here.”

The detective sank regally into John’s chair; his penetrating gray eyes had grown even more so; his tone was icy.  “Pray continue, Captain Watson.”

A slight grin tugged at the corner of John’s mouth at Sherlock’s sarcasm, but he refused to take the bait.  Too much needed to be said.

“I’m not going to run, Sherlock.  It’s not who I am, and do you really think there’s _anywhere_ I can hide where he won’t find me?” John’s voice had lost its hard edge, and he leaned forward in earnest, his eyes dark with the passion of his beliefs.  

“Moriarty’s insane.  He’s well and truly ‘round the twist, but there’s more to it than that.  He is fixated on you.  To him, I’m a pet.  A novelty.  A plaything designed to make _you_ dance, and he’ll find a way to use me against you whether I’m here at your side or hiding in some Costa Rican jungle.  Personally, I think we each stand a better chance together than we do apart.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.  “He’s latched onto me because of The Work.  Because I’ve managed to get in his way.  I can’t ask you to –“

“You’re not _asking_ me to do anything, you tosser!”  John jumped up, scattering the blankets to the floor, and leaned in until he was practically nose-to-nose with the detective.  For once, John had the height advantage, and he was going to use it.  “I _chose_ this, Sherlock.  I don’t chase around half of London with you every bloody night just because I need a cheap flatshare, and it’s time you understood that.  I committed myself to The Work – I committed myself to _you_ , Sherlock Holmes – the minute I shot that cabbie through the heart, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let some sodding lunatic with a questionable Irish accent change that!”

Blue eyes battled with gray for several long moments until finally John saw it.  Acceptance. _Grudging_ acceptance, but John would take what he could get.

“You’re not scared of him then?”

John laughed, but it was an unpleasant, hollow sound.

_I can stop John Watson, too … Stop his heart …_

Sherlock saw John’s jaw clench tightly and a flash of panic spark in his eyes before he spun away.  The doctor grabbed at the edge of the desk for balance, though whether that need for stability was physical or psychological was open for debate. John gripped the top so tightly that Sherlock heard the wooden joints creak in protest, but for that, the only sound in the flat was that of the ragged, shallow breathing of a man who refused to capitulate to fear. Again in control of himself, John walked to the window, pushed aside one of the loose boards with a finger, and peered out into the quiet, cold night 

“When I was stationed in Afghanistan, I saw a lot of things … _horrific_ things, that made me wonder if humanity was really worth saving,” John said, his voice toneless.  “T-things that made me question whether or not there was even a God because how could God let such things happen?  But as bad as it got, I never met the Devil face to face … 

 John turned back from the window, and the detective noted the change in the man’s eyes: blue flame and dread.

 “Until tonight.”

“Most people run the other way when they meet the Devil, John,” Sherlock said, rising from the chair.

“You and I are not even _remotely_ close to being ‘most people.’” John’s chuckle this time was both adamant and a little lost.  “I don’t know, Sherlock, but after the things he did – not just to me, but to all those others, to you – someone’s going to have to stop him, and that someone’s going to be you.  He’s thrown down the gauntlet, and you’ll pick it up because it’s who _you_ are.”

John drew himself to his full height and stood toe to toe with the consulting detective.

“Look, Moriarty may scare the piss out of me – and if you had a ounce of common sense mixed in with that brilliant intellect of yours, you’d be scared, too – but maybe you’ll live just a _little_ bit longer with me at your side.  Maybe I’ll manage to contribute something of worth even if it’s just being your sounding board.  Maybe there’s just enough of the romantic left in me to believe that every _anti_ -hero still needs a sidekick if he’s going to catch the bad guy.”

_Don’t make people into heroes, John.  Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them._

“You’re much, much more than a sidekick, John,” Sherlock said sincerely.  “Don’t demean yourself by ever thinking otherwise.  I … value you, your skills, and our friendship more than I can say.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said with a small smile.  “And I love you, too, you stupid git.”

They chuckled, smiled, and held one another’s gaze for a long while before the companionable moment faded under the expectation of traditional, staid ‘Englishness’.

“Right,” John said, looking down at the ground.  He picked up a few of the blankets that pooled on the floor between them.  “I’m … going to bed, then.  Take some more paracetamol and up to the icebox, I go.”

“Take my bed, John,” Sherlock said over his shoulder as the older man stepped into the kitchen.  “None of the windows in there blew out from the explosion, so it’ll be warmer once I stoke the fire.”

“Not sleeping, then?”   

“Not tonight,” Sherlock’s voice was deep with what John recognized as introspection.

“Moriarty will still be there tomorrow,” John said, hoping to convince the man to rest.  It had been a hellish night for both of them.

“Yes, he will,” his tone was ominous, but Sherlock turned to smile at the doctor.  “But I have a concussed sidekick … a concussed _friend_ to wake every two hours.  Just don’t bleed all over my pillow again.”

“You do realize that all this is _completely_ ruining the ‘high-functioning sociopath’ look you’re going for, ” John said with a wicked grin.

“Sod off, you tosser!” Sherlock growled.

John burst out laughing, and immediately grimaced in pain.  “Right.  Paracetamol.  See you in two hours, Sherlock.”

“Sleep well, John.”

Sherlock watched until John shut the bedroom door behind him before crossing to the sofa where he had tossed his coat upon their return to Baker Street. He tugged the coat over his dressing gown, stoked the fire as promised, and flicked off the lights, plunging the flat into darkness. Reaching into the deep pocket of his Belstaff, Sherlock pulled out John’s Browning L9A1. As he checked the clip and the safety, the glow from the fire danced across the steel of the weapon turning it, too, to red flame. Sherlock eased himself back into his chair and set the weapon on the wide armrest at his right hand.

If Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of him, he’d have to get to it first.  Sherlock had been caught unawares once.  It would _not_ happen again, and if that meant he had to keep watch over John every night until the maniac was caught …

So be it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought about this chapter. Reviews make for happy, prolific writers. The more we get, the more (and faster) we tend to write.
> 
> Next up, "A Scandal in Belgravia!" I'm thinking there might be a chapter or two I can play with for this episode. There's just so much Sherlockian goodness.

**Author's Note:**

> The song that I chose for Sherlock to play is entitled Sad Romance by Thao Nguyen Xanh. If you have a chance to listen to it on YouTube or iTunes, I highly recommend it. It’s the perfect piece to help you drift off to sleep.
> 
> Reviews bring much happiness to the writer. I hope that you’ll reward me by doing so. I’ve even changed settings so anonymous reviews can be left. Thank you for your reading time.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> ~ Sarah


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